


Lose your soul

by Deducingsocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Undead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:23:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deducingsocks/pseuds/Deducingsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the world all anyone can do is keep running.</p><p>I get up in the morning<br/>To the beat of the drum<br/>I get up to this feeling<br/>Keeps me on the run<br/>I get up in the morning<br/>Put my dreams away<br/>I get up, I get up, I get up again</p><p>- Lose your soul / Dead man's bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose your soul

At first they thought it was one of Moriarty's tricks. They assumed he was the one who had unleashed the disease upon the nation but it soon became clear that this certainly was not the case.  In fact the mastermind had been found in pieces in his own kitchen, just three weeks before the epidemic. It was later confirmed that he was one of the first victims. Sherlock Holmes still doesn't know why and he never will. 

The authorities announced the outbreak of  _'Lonely fever'_  (named so because immediate isolation of the infected. Correct term:  _Ira Morbus_ ) on the second of January.Ten days later and there were no authorities; there were only survivors. 

For three days, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes locked themselves into their flat. They had long since disposed of Mrs Hudson ( her brother had been infected and managed to scratch  her several times along the left bicep. She lasted four days before seeking out what ever it was that the disease needed to live) and had the flat securely bolted, wooden boards across all entrances and guns at the ready if needs be. But it wasn't enough. 

On the forth day Sherlock woke to find John staring out at the street below. He hadn't slept, God help him, not since killing Sarah. She had been ill for weeks and when she came banging at the door of course John allowed her in. But she was violent, her mouth and clothes and finger tips all painted in blood. Her eyes were clouded, her skin a sickly shade of grey. She bit at John's neck; he snapped her's.  Since then he had sat upon the window ledge, his gun securely in his lap and his eyes barely blinking. 

"She's still out there."  John whispered.

Sherlock was sat upon his armchair. He was checking his emails and texts, convinced that there would be rescue. But there had been no civilian life for days and hope was fading fast. 

"Who?" Sherlock crossed to the window and peeked through the boards. 

"Sarah. They haven't taken her." 

Sure enough, the woman's body was still laying against the front step. The blood had caked into the concrete, and Sherlock noted the flickering movements of flies upon her skin. He spared John these small details.

"How many have there been since we last took count?" 

"Four. They are just sitting there, waiting." 

It was at that moment that both men knew they needed to run. 

**

John Watson had faced combat before. He had seen war, he had seen death; but never quite like this. In this war they were not equal, they were out numbered and hungry and terrified. 

 _At least they had weapons.  
_  
But what good were a few bullets against hundreds of rabid beasts;  _human_  beasts? 

"We have to keep moving." Sherlock whispered.

It didn't matter, John didn't want to stop. He never wanted to stop. London had become a deserted feeding ground for the infected. The smell was overwhelming, one of blood and bodily fluids and death. That sort of stench wouldn't leave your nostrils for days, John knew that all too well. 

They must have looked ridiculous, kitted to the hilt in ammunition, knives and anything remotely dangerous. Sherlock in his twirling coat and John in just a jacket that barely fended off the cold. They danced along the streets of London, guns held at the ready, concentration never wavering for even so much as a second; for that second could cost you your life. 

  
It was growing dark and still they had no where to sleep. 

 _Just keep moving_. 

**

Sherlock had lost count of the days. They had moved four times (or was it five?) and dates had eventually become irrelevant. This building was by the far the most secure they had stayed in. It was central, strong and secure. There had been a few strays roaming the halls but they were shortly taken care off. The took the penthouse, in hope that the roof would provide means of contact with the outside world. 

John was sleeping, not more than two hours each day, but had entirely given up on eating. The tables had turned. Sherlock remembered a time when he was the insomniac who refused to eat,  and burned a hole into the living room carpet with pacing. 

"If you lose hope, somehow you lose the vitality that keeps life moving," Sherlock sat upon the shag carpet with his tie wrapped around his head and a notepad in his hand, " you lose that courage to be," John stared him from the sofa, Sherlock stared back as he continued, "that quality that helps you go on in spite of it all. And so today I still have a dream." 

"Martin Luther King Jr never had to survive a zombie apocalypse." 

"They aren't Zombies. They are infected with rage."

"Oh goodie." 

Sherlock hung his head. He threw the book onto an armchair and pulled his knees up to his chest.

"How are you still so full of hope?" John asked.

"You fail to notice just how mad I have gone," Sherlock gestured to the tie around his forehead and to his lack of shirt, " I have hopebecause that's what lunatics do in situations like this."

"Have you known many lunatics in this situation because, if you have, please do share your experience. Please do tell me how they managed to survive a fucking zombie apocalypse!" 

Sherlock rested his chin against his knees. 

"They aren't zombies." he stated after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Shut up Sherlock." 

**

The electricity flickered out on the third day in the penthouse. They lay under the glow of candles that night, side by side upon the shag rug. For once they could fully appreciate the beauty of the stars. 

"Do you think there is life on other planets?" John asked, turning to face the detective.

"Why not?" he shrugged, "We can't surely be the only ones." 

"Do you think about that often?"

Sherlock giggled, "Of course not. That's crazy."

"What do you think about?" 

John was staring at him with a grim expression.  _Death_. It was all he thought about. 

"Love. I think a lot about love." 

  
"What about love? Tell me what you think of love, oh great deducer." 

"It is magical, "Sherlock chuckled, "Love cares for no one. Love has no notion of time nor convenience. It does not care for equality, whether you are loved in return; it shall love regardless. It is everywhere, in every creature and in every soul." 

John's nose was touching his and Sherlock could feel his hot breath on his lips.

"Go on." he whispered. 

"Love is worth dying for. Anything that can make you so happy and then make you so miserable that all else seems to stop and fade away. Anything that is so strong as to bring the strongest to their knees and make the weakest feel invincible and, anything that can shatter the strongest organ in the body is worth dying for , worth putting your life on the line for worth living for." John had his hands wrapped around him, his mouth to his ear, "To the ones who love the deepest it bores the biggest of holes. And to the believers, it can wrong them how it likes; for they are the ones who stand up and learn to love again."

"You have a beautiful way with words." John whispered, "You talk like you know the feeling."

"Oh, but I do." 

**

It was upon the seventh day that they awoke to the sound of rattling. Sherlock was the first to jump to action, John being much too weak from his own starvation and sleep deprivation. The consulting detective made sure to fix his tie just right atop his head before reaching for his gun and moving toward the door. There was more rattling. 

"It's those things - "

"No. No it is much to gentle. They would have broken the door in." 

"Sherlock -"

"Shhh." 

Sherlock pinned himself against the wall and waited. There came yet another rattle, softer than the first. He took a deep breath and reached for the lock. Swallowing back his fear, he clicked it open and pressed down on the door handle. For several moments he held his breath.

The door was pushed violently against the wall and then there was nothing but his fruitless pleads for help and the searing pain as he was bitten hard upon the neck. Gun shot rang out through the penthouse but it was no use, there were too many. It wouldn't have mattered, for Sherlock it was much too late.  

There was the sickly wet sound of ripping flesh and John's screams were gone. Another snap and Sherlock hit the tiles. Another five minutes and he was hungry.


End file.
